


Relics

by DracoMaleficium



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, The Dark Knight Returns - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Behind the Scenes, Catatonic Joker, Character Study, Gen, M/M, Prequel, Sad Bruce, Shippy Gen, The Comic As Well as the Animated Movie, The Dark Knight Returns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 11:06:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7637683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoMaleficium/pseuds/DracoMaleficium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years after his decision to retire as Batman Bruce Wayne sets foot in the new Arkham Home for the Emotionally Troubled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relics

**Author's Note:**

> Self-indulgent sappy angst in this short piece written quickly to get the idea out of my system.
> 
> Conceived during a conversation about the Dark Knight comicverse with [batmandvrling](http://batmandvrling.tumblr.com) \- thanks and sorry for the sads!

This isn’t Arkham anymore.

The new place may bear the same name. It may serve the same purpose. But the neat, tidy corridors with their bright lights and mild pastel colors, painted walls, hidden wires, smell of disinfectant and air fresheners… They’re not Arkham, and can never be, and Bruce feels as obsolete in this brave new world as he navigates its corridors as the old Arkham is — a relic of the past. An unwanted myth that everyone would much rather leave behind. A monster under the bed.

Coming here was a mistake. 

“As you can see, your generous donations have really helped spruce up the place,” Dr. Wolper pontificates as he leads Bruce down one such ‘spruced up’ corridor, the lights so garish that Bruce has to fight the urge to squint. “No more Gothic nightmares! No more dusty old legends and unwieldy architecture! The new Arkham is much better suited to bring actual assistance to our patients, and I don’t like to blown my own horn, Mr. Wayne, but if you read my latest book, you’ll see —”

“How much further to Two-Face’s cell?” Bruce asks.

Dr. Wolper doesn’t need much time to bounce back from the interruption. “We call him Harvey here, and I’d be obliged if you did too. Not far at all, Mr. Wayne. It’s right this way. We have to pass through the intensive treatment ward first, but this will be a wonderful opportunity for you to see just how far we’ve come since the grim old days —”

Intensive treatment ward.

_Him._

Bruce can feel the past climb over him, cling to his shoulders like the cape he hasn’t worn in five years. The memories. The blood, the pain, the laughter… 

The heartbreak.

He expected this. He prepared.

Even so, when he asks, “Is this where you keep the Joker?” it feels like trying to talk through a mouth full of mud.

“Hmmm? Oh, yes!” Dr. Wolper looks surprised, but recovers quickly. “Yes indeed! You’ve heard about his state then, Mr. Wayne? Yes, I’m afraid it hasn’t improved at all, not since the Batman —”

“I should think,” Bruce makes himself say, “that it’d be a relief. He’s terrorized the city enough. It’d be better if… if he never…”

“Oh, we don’t believe that here, Mr. Wayne,” Wolper chastises him gently, like a parent admonishing a child for being rude in front of the grandparents. “Everyone has a shot at recovery! The Batman drove my patient to this state. I do believe that should he find a new inspiration, now that his old one is gone, the Joker might, given time, use his talents for good… ah, speak of the so-called devil…”

They pass a door. Grey, unassuming, with blinds open over the glass. There’s a number on it, as plain and concise as the man inside is not. Bruce’s feet stop. So does his heart.

He breathes. In, out. 

He steps closer.

“Is he…”

“Yes, this is his room. The nurse will be changing his sheets soon. He’s fed through a tube, you see, and the waste…”

Bruce wants to close his eyes. He breathes in and out, deliberately, and fights to keep them open. He tries to peer inside, but all he can see is a bed, backwards, and the glare of machinery.

And, just over the edge of the bed, a hint of green hair.

He stands there and stares, and his ears ring with the echoes, and old wounds ache, and all he can think is, _God._

“Can I,” he tries, “could I… go in?”

“Oh no, I’m sorry to say this but we usually do not allow non-personnel inside. It’s against the rules. We don’t know what kind of reaction that might trigger.”

“But he’s.” Bruce’s throat closes up, and he has to force air down to his lungs to open it up again. “He’s… what, comatose?”

“Not exactly,” Wolper corrects, for once letting himself look out of sorts. “There’s nothing physically wrong with him to keep him in this state. It’s just that he… shut himself down, from the inside. A catatonia of sorts. Of the mind. He can perform basic motor functions with some encouragement, but he doesn’t respond to stimuli and has to be guided at all times. And he’s been like this for —”

“Five years,” Bruce whispers. 

“Yes. Yes, exactly.”

“So why can’t I —”

But Wolper is already trying to lead him away, babbling, “If you’d kindly follow me, sir, right this way, we’ll be at Mr. Dent’s room shortly and then you’ll see the magnificent progress we’ve made with him, it’s enough to inspire anyone with hope that with the right attitude, anything is possible!”

Bruce stays where he is. He gazes through the glass, studies each detail of the green hair that he can see in the gloom inside. His heart drums, and he feels like he’s just dragged himself home, bent and broken after yet another fight.

He touches the glass.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Bruce sighs, and lets his hand drop.

He follows Wolper down the corridor.

 

***

 

He visits Harvey again a year later. It feels much too soon. He’d be happy if he never set foot on the asylum grounds again, but…

No, he corrects himself, not the asylum. Not anymore. It’s the Arkham Home for the Emotionally Troubled now, and the thought is bitter, dipped in irony. He wonders, not for the first time, if he qualifies, and knows he does. That doesn’t make stepping over the threshold any easier, and he almost wishes that Arkham was back to her old self even as he knows it’s impossible. Arkham, the way she used to be, can’t be back anymore than he can. The world just wouldn’t fit them anymore. 

That’s just how it works, and it’s… for the best.

Especially since Arkham is missing one other crucial ingredient… 

They pass the Joker’s room again. Once again Bruce stops by the door.

He thinks, It should be green.

“No change?” he asks quietly. He peers inside, spots the head of green over the edge of the bed, and it’s like the year has slipped away — it’s all exactly the same. The ache in his chest, the whirl in his head, the sweat breaking out on his palms… exactly the same, and suddenly, he’s angry.

 _Move,_ he dares the creature inside through the door. _Move, you bastard. Move so I can hurt you again._

Inside the room, there’s nothing, and Bruce tears himself away before Wolper can say anything.

 

***

 

It takes him half a year this time. He no longer bothers to pretend before himself that he’s coming for Harvey.

 _Come on_ , he begs the man inside as he presses his hand against the cold glass. _Come on. I’m here. I know you can feel me. Come on._

The Joker doesn’t stir.

But this time, when Bruce finally leaves, it feels like the clown is laughing at him.

 

***

 

He visits two more times after that. Once, as himself, with much the same result.

The second time, he sneaks in at night disguised as a guard and steals Wolper’s security card.

He waits for a long time before using it, though, and stands there outside Joker’s door just breathing and fighting against the urge to leave. There’s a monster inside. It’s asleep, and Bruce knows that he, alone, could wake it. Should he? Does he have a right to even risk it?

No. No, he knows he doesn’t. If the monster is asleep, then Gotham can carry on safe knowing it won’t crawl out from under her bed anytime soon. That the myths of old can no longer reach her, that they’re buried and forgotten, for better or worse. It’s as it should be. Bruce has no right to disrupt that peace, to stir the nightmares, to invite them back in when there’s no one to beat them back into the darkness.

He doesn’t _want_ that. 

But he also knows he won’t be able to leave until…

The card makes a quiet beep as it jams into the slot. A green light glares to life above, and the door opens.

Bruce presses down on the doorknob and makes himself step inside, into…

The room stinks. Soap, Bruce thinks, and more disinfectant, and also an acidic hint of sweat. They must have emptied the chamberpot recently because Bruce cannot smell anything else. It’s quiet, inside. Dark.

He stands there for a minute as the door closes behind him.

Then, he steps closer, and for the first time in almost seven years looks at the Joker’s face.

It’s slack. Wan. Hollowed out, with shadows lingering under the blank, open eyes which stare unseeing into the white splash of the ceiling. His mouth looks cracked and dry, pale without the lipstick. There’s single green hairs on the pillow, fallen out, faded even against the sterile white sheets.

Bruce remembers the splash of color the man used to be, and it hurts more than he ever thought it would.

He has to sit down. His weight settles on the edge of the bed, and he thinks — no, he _feels_ , unwillingly, feels deep in his heart rather than consciously verbalizes… Wrong. This… this is wrong. You’re not supposed to be like this. This isn’t you, a pathetic shell of a human with atrophying muscles and not a hint of personhood underneath, you’re… 

Movement. And flash. And laughter, and energy, and power, a whirl of a human being, cutting and dangerous and loud and obnoxious and alive…

Not — this. Never this, and… and…

He swallows, and stops himself from speaking out. 

Good God, he’s…

… Angry. That’s it. Angry, at the Joker, at the situation, at himself. Because he imagines Joker would have much the same to say about him, and he can _hear_ it, _Tsk-tsk, Batsy, you’re really letting yourself go, why, I believe you’d be too winded to finish if we went for a round tonight, old friend!_ , sang in that warm voice that always sounds like it’s a second away from erupting, like words are barely enough to contain the energy and thought behind them, and then the laughter would come, rich, vibrant, melodious even as it chills every bone in vicinity… 

Only the pale mouth doesn’t move. Only it’s all in Bruce’s head, and he’s a sentimental fool who’s going senile, and his heart hurts, and he knows just why he cannot put the cowl back on but at the same time quietly wishes he could.

 _It’s your fault_ , he tells the Joker as he studies the unmoving face, _yours, you brought this on both of us. I should let you rot here forever. I will. That’s all you deserve._

Joker doesn’t respond, and Bruce wonders if he could hear him if Bruce spoke aloud.

If his voice would make a difference.

He almost opens his mouth…

No. No, he can’t risk it, not for his city, not when he can’t be around to save it from what his voice could potentially unleash. He’s not ready, and he feels that maybe Joker isn’t either. 

Not yet.

And the world isn’t ready for either of them, old, tired relics as they are.

Instead, he raises his hand, and lets it rest against Joker’s cheek.

_Your fault._

And, more quietly, just on the edge of thought — _Look at me._

But Joker doesn’t, and Bruce thinks maybe he knew he wouldn’t. In this moment, here and now, he’s not the Batman. He doesn’t feel like Batman, and hasn’t in almost seven years. Maybe longer. In Joker’s eyes, he’d be a liar, a pretender, merely one of the illusions, a shadow unworthy of attention. He’s not what Joker is waiting for, and for a while yet, he won’t be able to be. 

Maybe it’ll be better for both of them if he never is again.

That way at least one of them will be at peace.

Still, he can’t help but press his hand closer, just this once. Just for a moment. Just so he can implore, one last time…

_Look at me._

But the Joker never does.

And so, eventually, Bruce has to get up again. He has to let his hand fall away, cold from the touch of white, white skin that feels dead even against the gentle rise and fall of Joker’s chest. Eventually, he has to say goodbye.

He does so with the soft touch of fingers against Joker’s forehead, and waits one last time, and his heart stops, and even though he knows he shouldn’t he _hopes_ —

Nothing. Not a blink, not a twitch of the eye. Nothing. 

Nothing.

Just the blankness of a gaze that seems to mock him, to call him out on the lie he’s just attempted. _Nice try, old friend. Come again when you’re truly ready, and maybe then we’ll have our one last dance. Not before. I’ll be here, waiting._

And that, in a way… is reassuring.

But only in a way, and Bruce’s heart still quietly shatters as he finally lets his legs carry him out of the dark room and into the outside world, feeling old. Tired. 

Obsolete, with nothing but the jeer of silence following him out.

There really doesn’t seem to be a place for either of them, anymore.

But if Joker is holding onto life in spite of everything then so will he, and maybe, in time…

… They’ll get a proper goodbye.


End file.
